


A Wolf does not cower before Lions or Toads

by Fanfic_Addicted



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abuse of child hostage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Meryn Trant being disgusting, POV Sansa Stark, Pre-The Battle of the Blackwater, Sansa flowering, summer sansan russian roulette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 07:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16300583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfic_Addicted/pseuds/Fanfic_Addicted
Summary: On the eve of the Battle of Blackwater Bay, Lord Tyrion, Hand of the king, has ordered the Kingsguard to deliver self-defence instruction to the high value noble women of the Red Keep in case the worst should happen.I have tagged this mature because of the theme of physical violence and sexual threats against a child hostage.  Whilst it isn't particularly graphic it is disturbing, but I believe in line with the canon.Please read the tags and read with these in mind.





	A Wolf does not cower before Lions or Toads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuchaHag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuchaHag/gifts).



> This is my very belated piece for the SanSan Summer Russian Roulette.
> 
> prompt from Plotweaver "Sansa is hurt, but she hides it from everyone, including Sandor."
> 
> Whilst I didn't manage to fulfill the prompt exactly, after months of dead end, this was the piece that wanted to be written.
> 
> Please heed the tags. This is an uncomfortable piece about abuse of a child hostage. There is no explicit smut but there are hints and Sansa is underage in line with canon.
> 
> Feedback very much appreciated.

 

****

Sansa nervously fidgeted with the straps on the brigandine that the Queen had commissioned for her.  Although much smaller and lighter than those worn by soldiers, she was unused to wearing such a thick and bulky garment and she moved about awkwardly.  

‘However can one move in such a cumbersome thing, let alone fight,’ Sansa mused as she tested swinging her arms in a sweeping arc, mimicking the cutting and jabbing movements she used to watch her brothers make at practice with Ser Rodrick in Winterfell.  

Her own training was due to commence imminently.  She was terrified at the prospect of facing one of the Kingsguard, even if it was only in mock attack. Joffrey was hateful.  She knew that he would pick the worst of the Kingsguard to partner her with and would do everything in his power to humiliate her.  Sansa didn’t know what she had done to make Joffrey hate her so, but she did know that he delighted in causing her suffering. That he would be there today made her tummy twist and coil like a nest of snakes.

‘I wish Arya were here,’ Sansa thought, not for the first time.  ‘She wasn’t afraid of Joffrey like I am. She is a real wolf.’ The desire to have her hellion of a sister by her side was so overwhelming it was almost painful.

Loud thudding at her door broke her out of her reverie.  A heaviness settled in her heart as she knew that the hour was here.

“My Lady.  I am to escort you to the training yard by the order of the Hand of the King,” came a gruff voice through the heavy wood.

Sansa’s heart dropped into the pit of her tummy as her prediction was realised.  Meryn Trant. He is the worst of the Kingsguard and definitely not worthy of the title _Ser_. Sansa gritted her teeth and took a deep breath, holding it for a count of four before releasing it in a quaver.  In... out. In… out. In… out. Sansa took several more steadying breaths to calm her trembling nerves. 

Straightening her spine she opened the door and boldly met Ser Meryn’s gaze determined not to let herself be cowed or humiliated.  She would show them. She could be a wolf too.

***

Ser Meryn led Sansa through the rough stone corridors of the Red Keep, his armour clanking with each step he took.  Sansa struggled to calm her racing heart and discreetly wiped her palms on the fabric of her skirt.

Eventually they arrived at an inner courtyard which had been turned into a makeshift training yard as part of Lord Tyrion’s war preparations.  Every able bodied man in the Keep was being drilled on sword handling, even boys as young as twelve were being given spears and half-helms.

The high walls of the ramparts cornered them on two sides, looming, threatening and oppressive.  The air was hazy with smoke from the burning of Flea Bottom and the seafront in anticipation of Stannis’ fleet arriving.  Sansa’s nostrils stung with the acrid scent and she could taste ash in the air when she licked her lips. 

The clash of steel rang out over the inner wall from the training yard next to them where the Gold Cloaks were training, the rough voice of the Sergeant at Arms hollering orders and insults alike.  Every so often there was the twang of a crossbow being released followed by a meaty thud as the quarrel drove home.

Sansa looked about and took in the haphazard cobbling together of straw men, weapons racks and hay bales with targets pinned to them.  Then, to her horror, she saw the bloated corpses of deserters hanging from hastily erected gibbets, their bodies peppered with quarrels serving as both an ominous warning and target practice .  

The King strode into the makeshift training yard his crossbow clutched in his hands, Sandor Clegane trailing at his heels. Joffrey made his way to an ornately carved wooden seat which had been placed on a small platform to one side or the training ring. Lord Tyrion and the Queen also filed in, 'no doubt at Joffrey’s behest to ensure witnesses to my complete and utter humiliation,' thought Sansa.

Unwittingly her gaze drifted back to the corpses and she hoped that he wouldn't be expected to fire at them.  The thought was abhorrent to her, it rested ill with the Gods to desecrate a body thus.  S ansa winced and averted her eyes in horror as a quarrel suddenly exploded into an eye socket with a sickening squelch.  Bile rose in her throat and she forced herself to swallow down the sour liquid before she lose her guts before the King and invite his ridicule.

Joffrey's hysterically giggles filled the air.

"Did you see that Dog?" he crowed.  "Bullseye.  Or rather corpseye," he said looking pleased at his witticism.

"Aye, your Grace.  A good shot," rumbled Clegane sounding bored.

The King took his seat and an eager smile lit his features as his eyes landed on Sansa.

“Lady Sansa,” he said looking her up and down.  “Look at her Dog. She looks half a boy,” he laughed.

Sandor Clegane grunted noncommittally.

“Well Dog! Don’t you think she looks ugly?” Joffrey persisted.

“As you say, your Grace,” replied Clegane, barely sparing her a glance.

Joffrey sulked, disappointed by his faithful Hound’s failure to play along.  If Sansa hadn’t been so fearful of what was to come, she would have found the sight of his petulant pout amusing.  

Joffrey instead turned his attention to Ser Meryn.

“Well Ser Meryn.  Let us see what you have in store for the Stark Bitch,” he said barely able to disguise his excitement, squirming in his seat with anticipation.

“Commence!” 

****

Ser Meryn approached Sansa, his movements stiff and clanking, now with an enormous sword hanging at his hip.  

Sansa froze.  

‘Run!’ her mind was screaming, ‘run you stupid girl,’ but her feet were frozen to the spot.  She was unable to drag her eyes off the sword. Memories of the horror of her Father’s  _ trial _ of the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor flashed through her mind.  The roar of the crowd. The swish and glint of the silver sword as it fell.  And the blood. Oh the blood! Crimson rivulets running down the blade and congealing in a sticky pool.

Ser Meryn lurched forwards, grabbing Sansa swiftly and roughly.  One arm snaked around her throat and a second curled tight across her torso, pulling her flush against his body. Sansa could feel his armour digging in and bruising her delicate flesh.  Unsure what to do she began to wriggle to try and relieve the pressure, but all this achieved was making Ser Meryn tighten his grip even further. Sansa’s chest felt like it was being slowly crushed and her throat burned as she struggled to breathe.  She felt her feet lift off the ground and she started to kick and flail her legs as she desperately gulped shallow gasps of air into her lungs. Her nails scrabbled desperately against his armour as she tried to futilely shift his bulk.

“Yes!” the King encouraged, “that’s it. Tighter!”

Ser Meryn adjusted his hold to pull her neck back onto his shoulder, exposing the creamy length of her slender throat.  Sansa let out a high high pitched whimper as she felt the sharp edge of his gauntlet slice into the flesh of her collarbone.  His face was now alongside hers and she could feel the rough scrape of his ginger bristles against her soft cheek. 

“Weak, powerless little thing like you.  Killing you will be easy as pie,” he hissed, the stench of his stale breath assaulting her nostrils.

“Tighter Ser Meryn, tighter!” yelled the King.

Sansa didn’t think it was possible for his grip to tighten even further, but it did.  The remaining air left her lungs in a rush and in a panic she began to struggle in earnest.  A shudder of revulsion ran down her spine as she felt his tongue flick out to lick into her ear.

“We know.  Word’s all round the Keep,” he grunted before taking a deep sniff. 

Fear gripped Sansa.  He knew. That must mean the king knew!  Her meetings with Ser Dontos had been discovered and this was all just a ruse to murder her, to save themselves the trouble of a trial.

“I can even smell it on you.  Nothing sweeter than the smell of a Maiden bleeding.  And a juicy little highborn plum like you... you’ll be even sweeter than most,” he leered.  

My moonblood. He means my moonblood she thought in a daze, too relieved to be embarrassed.  But Ser Meryn didn’t stop his taunting.

“Just ripe for fucking before snapping your neck... like a Little Bird.” he threatened darkly.

Hot tears washed over her cheeks at his disgusting use of a nickname which, unbeknownst to her until now, had come to signify comfort from her only true friend in the Keep.  No! She would not allow this Toad to sully that for her. 

Sansa redoubled her effort to free herself from the disgusting man.  Frantically she twisted and thrashed against him in vain, until she was stopped in her tracks by a searing, stinging pain ripping across her collarbone.  Sansa couldn’t help but release a hoarse cry as her flesh tore and a hot tickle ran down over chest. A liquid that was too thick to be sweat and too far away to be her tears.  

“Yes! Make her bleed! I don’t care about keeping her pretty any more, I want to hear her scream!” yelled the King in a frenzy.

Sansa’s world shrank to a hazy grey and all she could feel was the crushing vice around her chest, the burning sting at her collarbone and Ser Meryn’s rank breath huffing over her in grunts of exertion.  Vaguely at the back of her mind she became aware of something else… something hard poking up into her lower back. 

Panic and despair flooded her. ‘I’m too weak.  I can’t fight him off. I’ll never escape. Surely the Queen won’t allow Ser Meryn to kill me?  I’m a valuable hostage. This is only a training exercise…’ 

Sansa felt her body sagging and going limp, the fight leaving her limbs.

****

“Enough!” growled a voice.

With a thud Sansa fell onto the dirt floor, a blaze of pain shooting through her wrist as she landed on it awkwardly.  Sansa stayed a crumpled heap on the floor sobbing and choking great gulps of air into her starved lungs. Spitting her hair and muck out of her mouth, she could feel snot and tears streaking her face and judging from the metallic tang on her lips, blood as well.  

Sansa saw Joffrey’s face light up at seeing her rolling in the dirt, and his at first quiet sniggers grew into full blown howls of mirth. 

Sansa became aware of what a state she must look.  She willed her tears to dry up and angrily swiped her hand across her face to wipe away the evidence of her shame.  There was another blinding flash of pain in her wrist and she couldn’t help the pathetic sniffle and whimper that escaped her.

‘You alright girl?’ came the gravelly voice of Sandor Clegane.  His eyes narrowed as they swept over her like a physical caress.  The storm raging in his eyes fortified Sansa and she gave him a tiny smile.  

‘Perfectly well, thank you Ser,’ replied Sansa straightening her spine. She would not show them her weakness.  She was a wolf of Winterfell and wolves did not cower before Lions or Toads.

Humiliated and hurting Sansa rose to her knees before climbing to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster.  Every rib hurt and she could feel her under tunic sticking to the growing damp patch at her collarbone. Her wrist was throbbing in bursts of pain and she discreetly clutched it to her breast.  A wash of pain tore through her bruised body causing her to sway on the spot unsteadily. The weight of a large hand, oddly gentle, gripped her should to steady her.

“Clearly the  _ Lady _ Sansa needs a more challenging adversary,” said Joffrey, his face burning with malice.  “Hound! Strike her!” he ordered, barely able to suppress his glee at the prospect.

Sansa once again felt a paralysing fear.  Not Sandor!  No anyone but him.  She wasn't afraid _of_ him, but rather  _ for _ him.  She knew that Sandor would never hurt her, but how could he defy a direct order from the King?

“Your Grace.  I counsel…” began Cersei before Tyrion cut in.

“Clegane! See the Lady Sansa back to her rooms and instruct her Handmaiden to attend her,” ordered Tyrion, ignoring Joffrey's outraged protestations.

Sandor nodded curtly and hurried to comply, pushing Sansa gently to start her walking.  Sansa took a few tentative steps then, once trusting her legs not to collapse under her, longer and more dignified strides.   With her head held high Sansa exited the courtyard to an uneasy silence.  

As she entered the corridor, from the corner of her eye she witnessed Lord Tyrion rounding on Joffrey, scolding the King with withering acerbity.

“The purpose of this exercise,  _ Your Grace _ ,’ said Lord Tyrion, spitting out the title like a rotten fruit, “was to protect the Crown’s most valuable assets.   _ Not _ to do your Uncle’s work for him by killing our own hostages, you vicious little idiot.”

“How dare you! The King!  I… I am the King!” spluttered Joffrey turning puce.

“Joff dear,” cooed Cersei reaching to stroke Joffrey’s arm and temper her son’s ire.  Joffrey shoved her away roughly.

Struggling to contain her smile Sansa lengthened her stride and headed back to her chambers, her silent protector a comforting presence at her back.

****

Sansa entered her room and turned to thank Clegane but to her surprise he followed her inside, closing and barring the door behind him.

“I’ll be fine now, thank you Clegane.  For your intervention and your escort. You many leave me now.  I do not need my maid, I can see to myself quite adequately without bothering her.  And.. I… I thank you once again,” Sansa chirped. She wanted to be alone. To cry over her hurt and humiliation in privacy.  

“Bugger that. I know you’re hurt girl,” he said matter of factly. 

“No, I assure you I'm quite well…” Sansa began, but he cut her off.

“Pretty Bird. Bad liar,” he dismissed.

“Let me undo those straps, you'll never manage with a broken wing,” he rasped, gently and deftly unbuckling her brigandine but not making any attempt to remove it.

Sansa saw Sandor freeze as it fell open, his eyes transfixed at her collarbone.  His lip twitched and a fierce scowl darkened his features. Sansa knew that he must be looking at the now dried blood that had seeped through her tunic.  She hadn’t looked at the wound yet herself and curiously lowered her gaze. She had to stifle her gasp when she saw how her blood had blossomed into the white of her tunic, spreading like the red leaves of the Weirwood tree.  The top of a ragged, congealing wound was visible just beneath her collarbone, before disappearing under her tunic.

“Little Bird,” he rasped, sadness clouding his eyes.

Sandor lifted a trembling finger and traced the angry gash, pulling down the neckline of her tunic to follow it to its conclusion, well onto the swelling mound of her breast.  Sansa felt her skin tingle at his gentle touch, the roughness of his skin causing gooseprickles to rise along her arms. To her shame Sansa felt her nipples harden as if they had been exposed to cold air and she could clearly see their pink tips pointing through the thin fabric of her tunic.  

Sansa bit her lip and hoped that Sandor hadn’t noticed.  Or did she? She had never been touched by a man this intimately before and it was setting off a riot of emotions in her head.  Part of her wanted to knock his hand away angrily and hide herself from his gaze. But another part, and she was ashamed to admit, by far the stronger part, wanted him to pull her tunic further aside and allow his fingers to continue to trail lower. They were so close to her hardened little bud that if he shifted his finger just slightly it would brush against it.  

Neither of them moved, both of their gazes transfixed on his finger upon her breast. The only sound was Sandor’s breath coming in harsh ragged pants as if recovering from some tremendous exertion.

Sansa became aware of a dull throbbing sensation in her woman’s place and felt her cheeks burn.  Finally she dragged her gaze away from his hand, hoping to quell her wanton thoughts. Was this what happened to women when they flowered?  They became unable to control their base urges? 

“I’ll kill him Sansa,” he rasped.  Sansa was unsure whether he meant Ser Meryn or the King.  With a startling realisation his previous words echoed through her mind... _'y_ _ou'll be glad of the hateful things I do when I'm all that stands between you and your beloved King_ ' and she felt her heart swell at their meaning.

Gently Sandor grasped her chin, lifting her gaze to his.  Her Tully blue met his stormy grey and the spark of tension that crackled between them was tangible.  Sansa felt her own breath stutter and the throbbing sensation in her woman’s place intensified. Unsure how to quell the queer ache she pressed her thighs together.  An unexpected spark of feeling coursed up to her tummy causing her to suck in a gasp of air. Sandor’s eyes darkened until they appeared almost black, before he closed them and took a deep, ragged inhale.

Her memory was brought back to the disgusting things Ser Meryn had said to her.  _ ‘I can smell it on you’  _ and she felt a tear slip down her cheek at the remembered humiliation.  She wondered if she smelled bad. If she was dirty and disgusting. If Sandor could smell her and was repulsed.    

When Sandor opened his eyes, she saw something shift in his gaze and his face hardened.

“Dry those tears Little Bird. They won’t help,” he chided gruffly. “I’ll fetch your maid now,” he said starting to back away.

Sansa wanted to stop him.  To ask him not to fetch her maid but for him to stay instead.  She couldn’t explain why. She looked at his arms and chest and thought about how safe she would feel encased there.  Suddenly she had an overwhelming desperation for him to hold her. Wondering how to put voice to her desires she took a shaky breath.

“Please S…” was all she managed before he cut in.

“Save your chirping Little Bird.  I’ve no use for it,” he dismissed before unbolting the door and walking away.

****

Alone, Sansa collapsed onto her feather bed, emotionally exhausted and physically hurting.  The full impact of everything that had happened that afternoon slammed into her chest like an iron fist and she gave a great heaving sob.  Finally, after weeks of controlling every emotion and wearing an emotionless court mask, she allowed her tears to fall and gave vent to all of her bottled up hurt, humiliation and grief.

She cried for her lost Father. For Lady.  For her scattered family. She even cried for Jon Snow at the Wall.  And she cried for herself. These tears were for her and her alone. She would never let  _ them _ see this.  No. She would never give them the satisfaction of seeing her torment.  She was a wolf, and wolves did not cower before Lions or Toads. 

****


End file.
